The Death Card
by QuirkyFlattery
Summary: A first-person story of Jack Wilder. Including some scenes from the movie (with commentary from Jack) and some that I made up myself. Basically, how the movie would've been if it was all about him.
1. The Decision

"Hey, the show's on right now!" Ben, my younger brother said, running into the den. Our older brother, David, and I were watching the football game on the TV. I don't really care for football, but I was bored and didn't want to argue with David.

"Yeah? Let's change the channel," David replied. He did nothing.

The room was dark and the only light came from the TV. I could see the floor was littered with game controllers and DVDs. The couch took up most of the room and the TV took up most of the wall.

"Please?" Ben asked.

No response, but that was expected; the only way to persuade David was to have something he wanted. Ben knew that. He ran off and came back with five dollars.

"David, I'll give you five bucks to leave so I can watch 'Magicians'," He said with a disappointed tone, holding out the bill.

That got David's attention; he snatched the bill, pocketing it. "Nice work, Ben. I guess I'll just watch the game in my room."

As he pushed past me to leave, I swiped the bill from his pocket, regaining what was Ben's. It wasn't fair for him to keep that money.

Ben plopped down on the couch next to me and flipped to the channel. I didn't usually watch TV with Ben, but what else was I going to do on a Sunday night? We had already missed five minutes. The host was talking to the magician, who was kind of young. He was introduced as J. Daniel Atlas. The skinny man was dressed up a tux, but that was the only neat thing about him. He had really messy dark hair with a thin face and prominent nose. As soon as he started his card tricks, I became engrossed. There was something about the carefree way he handled the cards. It was like he could tell where each card was at any given moment. I hung on the guy's every word and movement. This guy was really good. Atlas' illusions eluded me and I needed to figure out how he did it.

During the commercial break, I noticed that Ben had popcorn.

"Man, when did you get popcorn?"

"Like, ten minutes in. I asked if you wanted any, but you didn't say anything."

"Oh," I said, I took out his money. "This is yours," I handed it to him. Ben's eyes grew wide.

"How did you get that?" He asked in amazement.

"I took it as he was getting up."

Ben smiled. "Nice!" He gave me a high-five.

That was the first time, but not the last. I decided then and there that I could do that for people. I could be like Daniel Atlas; I could use illusions and tricks to entertain, amaze, and get a little justice on the side. Becoming famous wouldn't hurt either.

For the next few years of my high school career, nothing else mattered but becoming as good as I could. I tried card tricks, coins, rings, and pretty much any other equipment I could get my hands on. I practiced with card tricks under the desks at school. I practiced more than I did homework, but my parents wouldn't let my grades slip below a B-. I would tell my mom and dad that I knew what I was going to do; I was going to be a magician. My parents laughed and Dad ruffled my hair, saying that I still had plenty of time to decide.

However, I had already decided. I graduated and didn't go to college. My mom, mostly, wasn't happy with my decision, saying I'd never make any money. Trying to convince me, she challenged me to move out and try to live with my career choice. I guess she was right about the money factor, I'm kind of broke, but there's hope for me yet.


	2. The Spoon

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am the next great magician, and I will give one hundred dollars to anyone who can tell me how this trick is done." At the mention of money, a few people turn around.

I jumped a touring boat on the East River after lunch at the deli. I climbed to the top level, where the wind hardly touched my short hair. Tourists are easy to trick and I knew it wouldn't be hard to entertain them. It would be good practice, if nothing else. But, now I had their attention.

"I have an ordinary spoon from Mel's Deli right here in Brooklyn. Check it out." I hold up the spoon and tap it against the railing. People stand up to see and pretty soon there's a crowd around me next to the stairs.

I shake out my hands; I'm getting ready. I raise the spoon so it's eye level. "Now, everyone, please pay very, very close attention because I'm about to bend this spoon with my mind." I pinch the spoon around the throat in my right hand. I slowly make it bend; holding out my left hand like I'm twisting it from a distance. Once it's reached a 90 degree angle, I hold it up for all to see. Most everyone looks impressed and hesitant applause grows more confident. I smile.

"Thank you, thank you. Pass that around." I hand it off. A nerdy-looking guy with thick glasses, dark curly hair, and a plaid tie makes his way to the front of the crowd.

"What's this?" Nerdy Glasses asks, pulling at my sleeve. Shit. He takes the spoon from the back pocket of my jeans.

This guy obviously knows how this trick works. I don't actually have the hundred; I'll have to improvise.

"What are you doing, man?" I demand, grabbing his wrist. That's when I slip off Nerdy Glasses' watch. He doesn't notice.

He pulls the other spoon out of the sleeve of my leather jacket. "Look at this," Nerdy Glasses announces, turning to show the crowd what he found. "Looks like we have a spoon and a stem." The crowd moans.

Defensively, I say quickly, "I've got other tricks," He's a little too close, so I slip his black leather wallet out of his jacket and into mine. He doesn't notice.

"Or you could give me my hundred bucks," Nerdy Glasses insists.

A guy in the audience chimes in, "You said you would."

I sigh and take out Nerdy Glasses' wallet and fumble around for the cash.

Nerdy Glasses remarks, "Nice wallet," with a smirk. I ignore it.

"You have a very good eye, sir," I say, acting defeated, and hand him the hundred. It takes all I have not to get too excited. This guy has way too much cash on hand. I tuck the wallet inside my jacket and take the stairs, pushing through the tourists on my way off the boat. The boat is just leaving again; I jump the distance between the boat and the dock.

"Stop that guy!" I can hear him yell from the top of the boat. I keep walking quickly, like the commotion had nothing to do with me. "Stop that guy in the leather jacket! He's got my wallet!" The line of waiting boating tourists makes no move to stop me.

Okay, first thing to do with a stolen wallet: get rid of the ID and credit cards. Keep the cash. Best way to get rid of something quickly: throw it in the river.

After I walk a few blocks along the edge of the river, I get down to the water and count my earnings. Nerdy Glasses kept his money in tens. I got sixty bucks even after I gave him the hundred. I carelessly toss the wallet into the water.

I check all my pockets and I'm surprised to find something I didn't know I had. There's a card in the back pocket of my jeans. The front looks kind of like a Tarot card that clearly spells 'death' and has a picture of a human skull with a grotesque red background. Shit, that's not a good sign. I flip it over and there's an eye symbol. Underneath the image, it says, 'March 29, 4:44 pm. 45 East Evan Street, NY, NY.' I let out a soft, nervous laugh. Two days from now, I guess.

No way Nerdy Glasses could've planted the card; he was no sleight. It must've been a passenger. But, who could escape my notice?


	3. The Apartment

I'm going to be late; I know it. I didn't want to waste money on a cab, so I took the bus. And the bus, as always, was late. I sit in the middle, near the window, right across from the door, with my black messenger bag on my lap. The plastic blue seats face forward on my side, inward on the opposite side. There's a faint smell of urine, which I've gotten used to. Thankfully, the window next to me isn't too smudged and I can look outside.

Some days, like today, I look out the window and try to notice everything. I've lived in Brooklyn my whole life and there's always something new to see. Like, watching the way people go about their lives. As the bus stops at an intersection, an old blind man leads another across the crosswalk; literally the blind leading the blind.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass. The afternoon sun only lights half of my face. My eyes go directly to the darkest parts, which are my eyebrows and eyes, both dark brown. My hair is lighter and naturally messy, so I keep it cut short. I smirk at myself and it appears crooked in the glass. I drop the smile, stare for a second, and move on.

I watch a group of high school boys going into the oldest McDonald's I've ever seen. It has a neon sign from the '60's and everything. When the bus stops, I spring to my feet, lifting my bag's strap over my shoulder, and make my way out onto the street.

In the open air, I'm relieved from the smell of urine. Looking around, the nearest street sign reads Hudson Avenue. This, according to my cell, means I am three blocks from 45 East Evan Street. I check my new watch. 4:43. Damn it, just a minute. I pick up the pace, glancing at my phone for directions. It is a nice, clean-looking part of town, the kind with too many coffee shops. I hardly have time to notice the handsome little trees or the oriental designs in the stone apartments towering above. I pass a black lamppost with a green sign, saying 'Evan Street'.

My cell guides me to the apartment building. I enter near a small drug store, realizing I have no idea what room I need to find. I start walking and I hear muffled voices a few floors up. That's probably where I want to be. Watch says 4:46. As I climb the stairs, the more the voices distinguish themselves. One is fast and familiar, but I'm at a loss at the moment. One is a woman's. One is slower, calmer, and doesn't sound familiar. As I reach the third floor, I can see them and the owner of the third voice speaks.

"Okay. So he never made you feel special," the bald guy says to the red-headed woman. "And, trust me; you deserve to be made to feel special." You can tell he's almost bald even though he's wearing a black trilby hat. I can't see the other guy with his back to me.

"That's a really nice story," The other guy says quickly, turning to walk away and I recognize him instantly; his messy dark hair, skinny face, and prominent straight nose. "Hope you enjoy each other's company."

As soon as he sees me, he stops. I stop. "No way," I say and I walk towards the group. "J. Daniel Atlas?" He looks confused. "Dude, I have seen everything that you have ever done. I mean, you're like… I idolize you. Seriously." The other two laugh to themselves.

It was really Daniel Atlas; the whole reason I'm out on this endeavor to be a magician. I would spend my nights on the weekends looking up videos of him and figuring out how his tricks worked. I saw him perform live a few times; he had it going for him. Still trying to make it work for me…

"From a true fan," He says as he holds out his hand. I shake it. "It's so nice to meet you."

"I'm Jack, by the way," I smile.

"Question," Bald Guy raises up a card with a hooded figure on it. "Did you get one of these?" It looks similar enough to mine.

"Yeah," I say, digging through my jean pocket. I pull it out to show him. I smirk, "Yeah, Death." I shrug it off, giving a nervous laugh.

The red-headed woman looks like Daniel's assistant from the shows I've seen. She really is beautiful; the way her hair falls in a red river onto her shoulders and her eyes shine. She lifts up her card and gives me a genuine smile. "The High Priestess."

Daniel shows me his card and raises his eyebrows. "I'm the Lover." It has a picture of a snake wrapped around a heart.

Daniel's red-headed assistant (I think her name is Haley?) coughs and murmurs, "three minutes".

Bald Guy scoffs at his, saying, "Hermit". He winks at Haley.

At least I'm where I'm supposed to be. The three of them are standing in front of an apartment door with chipped gold characters. But these guys are just hanging outside it? I thought this was a meeting of some sort.

"So, what are we…? Are we waiting for someone?" I ask, looking around the group for an answer. "Why are we just…?"

"The door's locked," Daniel and Haley say in unison. Bald Guy just shrugs. I look from Daniel to Haley in disbelief. I shake my head.

"Oh, no, nothing- nothing's ever locked." Goodness. If it's locked; you pick it, simple at that. I push my way past them to get to the door. It's time to impress. I take the pick set out of my bag and stick them in the lock, and pick it in three seconds. I push the door and it swings in.

The door leads to a long hallway. It's dark and old. Haley pulls out her phone, turning on the flashlight. Daniel pulls an actual flashlight from his bag. Haley walks in past me and I follow her. The first thing that hits me is the cold. Like someone turned the air conditioning up to max. Each step on the wooden floorboards squeaks as we make our way inside.

"What is this place?" Haley asks herself, peering into the bathroom on the right, which was overrun with mold and grime.

"Wow. Thought my apartment was nasty," Bald Guy mutters under his breath.

On the left, an archway reveals a dining room. I only recognize it as a dining room because of the fireplace at the end of it. The rest of the room is cluttered with old, dusty furniture.

Continuing on, the hallway opens up to the main room. If it was being used, it would be the living room. It's a rectangular shape with a small kitchen to my right and another archway to the dining room to my left. Shuttered windows are sporadically placed around the room. Somehow, it's even colder in here.

"Man, it's freezing in here," I remark, looking around. Worked into the wood floor, there's a design like three rectangles connected with a line. And in front of it, a greeting card and a white rose are waiting.

"What's that?" asks Haley (or is it Henley?).

"I don't know," Daniel replies, picking up the card. Haley/Henley looks at it over his shoulder.

"What's it say?" Bald Guy demands, as he wanders over to the other side of the room as he looks around.

"Now you don't," Daniel reads, and then he gives me a suspicious look. Now you see me? Is that what that means?

Haley/Henley picks up the rose. "A rose by any other name…" She quotes, placing it in a vase on the floor to the left of the symbol. As soon as I hear the clink of the rose landing in the vase, water starts to drain out. I can't see a hole, but the water streams towards the symbol on the floor like a small river. Daniel gives a little chuckle.

"Guys, what's happening?" I wonder out loud, impressed.

Bald Guy lets out a soft, "Whoa", as the water trickles into the symbol on the floor, filling it up. As soon as it's filled, something drops beneath it and a thick vapor emerges.

"It's gas," I say, backing up. Are they trying to kill us?

"Relax. Just dry ice," Bald Guy says.

"Wait. What do you think this is all about?" Daniel asks, looking around to the three of us.

I take off my bag and gently toss it against the wall; looks like we'll be here for a while. The only thing I'm wondering is why I'm with a group of magicians; well, I'm guessing that Bald Guy must be one, too. That can't be an accident.

Bald Guy raises his hand to his head. "Hang on, hang on." Oh, so he's a mentalist. Great. Silence fills the room; everyone looks at him as he closes his eyes. After a few seconds, he grimaces, shaking his head, and sighs. "I got nothing."

"Okay, thank you. Thank you for the delay," Daniel remarks sarcastically.

The mentalist gestures with his arms, "I'm just trying to create the space for wisdom." The dry ice fog now covers the entire floor of the main room.

Haley/Henley crosses over to Daniel. "Danny, be honest. Did you do this?"

"No. Wait, did you?" He points to me. I'm shocked, but flattered. Daniel thinks I did this? That guy seems like he would be arrogant enough to believe I'd do that to impress him. Man, that would've required getting this apartment, outfitting it with that stuff. That's a lot of work and money that I don't have.

I scoff, "Well, I wish."

"Why didn't anyone ask me if I did it?" The mentalist asks. No one answers. Haley/Henley rolls her eyes. We spread out, exploring the apartment.

Daniel tries a light switch in the hall, I watch. "Electricity is out," I announce. Figures, I don't think anyone could actually live here.

The mentalist reaches up to a light bulb in the corner of the room, "Let's check," he says as he twists it tighter into the socket. The bulb lights up yellow. Three projectors that I didn't notice earlier come to life in beams of light and intersect in the middle of the room, over the symbol, creating a holographic image. The four of us come closer and I see that instead of one image, it's a bunch of little ones. There's the eye again, some blueprints of random contraptions, equations, and shapes that I can't make out.

"Blueprints," Haley/Henley observes.

"They're incredible," Daniel says.

"Who do you think did this?" I ask. It definitely wasn't any of us.

"I don't know, but I really want to meet them," Haley/Henley says. In the center of it all, the symbol that was on the floor earlier becomes bolder and enlarges. "It's a show."


	4. The Swipe

You were in or you were out. The four of us were in on a preplanned heist with specific targets by an unknown mastermind. That's what the hologram was all about; they were plans. Why did we agree? We were being offered money, fame, and an adventure. I wanted all three.

This next year will be preparation for the biggest thing that any of us have ever done. Bigger than most people will ever attempt in their lives. I'm working harder than anyone. Being the youngest and least experienced, I have something to prove. I've been warned that I have the hardest part in this plan later on and I couldn't let the other three doubt me. But still, I don't know why the show master, the guy who planned all this, would choose me. I was never a success. I just hope that guy sees something I don't.

We're in Paris, France to prepare for our first show. I know now that Haley/Henley is Henley Reeves and hasn't been Daniel's assistant since an event that she won't mention. She's now solo and puts on magic stunts for a paying audience. Bald Guy (aka the mentalist) is Merritt McKinney, who used to be somebody in magic, but got cheated. Now he appears wherever he can in hopes of a comeback. But, now we're all someone else. As a team, we're the Four Horsemen and we'll soon be the biggest names in entertainment.

Stealing wallets is something I can do and I'm good at, but this time it's different. People, my teammates, are counting on me. And I have one mark; a Frenchman named Etienne Forcier who'll star in our first show for no other reason than his bank. The Credit Republican of Paris is going to be robbed by none other than us. And it starts with me.

We got two hotel rooms for the few days we're staying in Paris. One for Henley, one for us guys. It's a three-bed room with a couch and a TV, which is pretty decent for one of the cheapest hotels in Paris. Sadly, our few days in this city are purely prep work and it's the last day.

"Jack will get Etienne Forcier's signature from his credit card," Daniel says, handing me a playing card. It's the two of hearts. Daniel's sitting on his bed, papers splayed around him in piles. He stops rifling through his paper for a minute to point to the card I'm holding, "Copy it on this card with a Sharpie; he'll pick it during the show."

"He can't see your face," Merritt says from the couch, he's been reading some weird book with a face on the cover or something.

"I thought he wouldn't remember it," I reply, flipping the card into my pocket. Merritt had said earlier that he would make sure that the Frenchman wouldn't recognize us later at the show. I go through my suitcase for a Sharpie.

"Well, he'll recognize the guy who stole his wallet. It's something people tend to remember," Merritt tells me, not looking up from his book and turning the page.

"No one ever sees me take it," I raise an eyebrow at him.

I would never be that sloppy.

"He won't even notice that it's gone." I slip the marker in my pocket and head towards the door, grabbing my leather jacket.

Daniel opens his mouth to say something, but I can guess what it is (and I'm not a mentalist).

"No, I won't steal anything," I sigh, pulling on my jacket. "It'll go right back into his pocket. Can I go now?"

For some reason, when I told Daniel about my adeptness in pick pocketing, he assumed I stole for a living. Which actually isn't true; I usually do it for an act, but lately it's been a bad habit.

"Sign it in the middle," Daniel adds as I walk out.

Etienne Forcier is out on his daily commute. We have his routine down to a T. That was the first couple days. It's stalker-ish, I know, but necessary. I catch him buying his newspaper at a stand and note that he put his wallet in his inside pocket of his suit jacket. Damn. That won't be easy.

Usually, to get a wallet out of that pocket, I need to be face-to-face with the person. Having a conversation is the easiest way to do that. But, that's going to be hard for me, not knowing any French except for: 'bonjour', 'pardon', and 'merci'. Guess I'll wait for the right moment…

I casually follow him a good few meters behind. Luckily, Paris is similar to New York. It's older, but there are still lots of people on narrow sidewalks and it's easy to become invisible. He likes to stop at 'Pomme de Pain' for a sandwich at lunch. That's where he's heading now, I hope.

After walking a few blocks, the dark-haired Frenchman turns into a small shop with bright green awning. 'Pomme de Pain'. When I enter a few seconds later, the door closes with a jingle. No one looks up. There's a soft chatter of French in the room and it smells like fresh bread. Everything is green; the walls, the tiles, and the tablecloths. The sun reflects through the window, bathing the room with a warm glow.

I get behind Etienne in line; I don't want to tip him off by not buying anything. I listen to him order in front of me so I can repeat it with the accent. '_Donnez-moi __un __sandwich au jambon__, __s'il vous plaît.' _I murmur it under my breath a few 't want to sound American. I've been using this trick way too often this week.

Mister Forcier pays and I watch him tuck his wallet back into the left pocket on the inside of his jacket. That's still shitty. He steps aside and waits for his order.

"Bonjour. Donnez-moi un sandwich au jambon, s'il vous plaît," I say, approaching the counter.

"Je pense qu'il est très populaire aujourd'hui, mais non?" The lady asks. Fantastic.

I nod, not smiling, and hand her the Euros. Smiling too much is very American. She hands me my sandwich. "Merci," I say.

I'll take a seat behind Etienne, who is now seated at one of the tables near the window. He took his jacket off! Yes. His suit jacket now hangs on the back of his chair. I sit down, our chairs back to back.

My phone vibrates; I'll have to check it in a second.

I hold my sandwich in my left hand and reach for the pocket with my right. I bring my hand back clasping the wallet. I take out his credit card with 'Credit Republicain de Paris' advertised on one side. I flip it over to look at his signature. It's simple enough to replicate. I quickly copy it onto the two of hearts card with a Sharpie. I compare the two signatures; they're identical. Mission complete; I slide the wallet back into his pocket with the credit card inside.

I check my phone. Daniel left me a text. 'Don't take any money. Did you get it?'

'Yes, I got a sandwich. Do you want one, too?' I text back. Now what should I do? Go back to the room? Sleep? Eat? No, I'll more likely get another job.

'Good, you're joking. I'll take that to mean that it went well. I'll see you when you get back.'

Now he'll be expecting me. I guess I'll see what he's got.

Surprisingly, Daniel didn't want me to do anything. I get back, everything is as it was before I left forty-five minutes ago; Daniel on his bed, Merritt on the couch. Neither of them even looks up when I come in. I place the card on Daniel's knee.

"Good boy," Merritt says from the couch.

"Have you even done anything?" I ask.

"Not since you left. And it has been great," Merritt replies, smiling to himself.

"Okay, you, you're supposed to be getting ready for tonight," Daniel demands, pointing at Merritt, "and you can… do whatever," he tells me.

"What's tonight again?" I ask because I honestly don't remember. Maybe I was sleeping when he thought he informed me.

"We're robbing the bank."

"Right, that's cool."

* * *

It's dark out, the streetlamps are lit. The street is calm in the cool air. There's a bridge for the French transit train going above us. Nothing is happening; I mean it's one in the morning and I'm exhausted. I wait in a SUV across the street from Merritt, who is mounted on a motorcycle, decked out in a police uniform. We're waiting for the armored truck going to the Credit Republican of Paris.

I've been sitting in this black SUV for… about an hour. I have the radio on softly, French pop music is playing. I kick my feet up on the dash and glance behind me at the stacks of fake Euros. It occurs to me that I don't know how Daniel came by the fake money.

Why did I jump on this plan anyway? I'm clearly stealing here; I'm obviously breaking the law. Not to mention the money fraud. I'm rethinking this. So, I'm in on this plan to… Join the Eye? That's what the other three seem to think. Or this could be a plan to get into jail, but there are easier ways to do that.

The Eye is this secret organization the supposedly guards the secrets for real magic. That's very far-fetched; I don't really believe that. However, they only let a few people join every few decades. Our plans seem to be coming from them. We could be working for a psychopath or a genius.

The plans come gradually as we complete orders. Thankfully, none of it seems idiotic. These plans are brilliant; there aren't any flaws. Plus, a lot of these schemes are to get back at bad people who've wronged innocents. Maybe that's why I'm going along with this.

Normally, I'd be nervous, but that was the first thirty minutes of waiting. I'm kind of dozing off now. Not even the energizing music keeps me from closing my eyes. I end up zoning off until Merritt radios me.

"Jack, get ready."

I startle myself awake, looking around outside the SUV. Coming up the road is a large white truck, a bus really. It's the only thing moving, the white headlights blazing a trail along the road. As the truck comes to a stop at the intersection, Merritt takes off his helmet. I turn the key to start the car and watch as the driver of the truck falls asleep on the steering wheel. Sometimes Merritt is a little scary.

I pull the car around to the back of the truck, and put it in park. Merritt demounts and walks over. I roll down the window.

"You ready?"

"Sure," I murmur as I climb out, grabbing the keys. Merritt and I open the back doors of the truck to see Daniel and Henley sitting in the middle of the money. Daniel and Henley were able to get in the truck by hiding in the false bottom of the cart that held the money. They were already inside it before the truck even left. And when the truck came to a stop at the correct intersection, Henley drugged the guard. He's now unconscious on the floor.

"Hello, boys," Henley says, standing up and climbing out. Daniel, holding a block of money, follows.

Daniel gets right back to giving orders. "Now, we need to replace this money," he holds up his chunk. "With the money in there," he points to the car. I dramatically pop the trunk door with the remote. "Put the good money in the bags," He says.

It takes us five minutes to make the switch. Finally, the fake money is on the crate in the armored truck. Under the money; the card I signed and the ticket stub identical to the one that Etienne will have at our first show in Las Vegas. Also hidden in the money is some flash paper triggered to light around the time we perform; that's how it'll disappear. The real money is in our car, safely in multiple duffel bags.

Luckily, for our shows we got a benefactor, Arthur Tressler, who doesn't ask too many questions. He let us borrow his private jet for our week in Paris. The airport security might've asked questions about our numerous suspicious duffel bags.


	5. The Bank

"Merritt McKinney," The announcer's voice booms across the stadium-like building. "Daniel Atlas, Henley Reeves."

Here it comes, "Jack Wilder." Aw, yes.

"Arthur Tressler and the MGM Grand proudly present the Four Horsemen."

The screens around the room display our faces and our logo, the three rectangles with the connected line. The four of us are dressed in all black; Daniel and Merritt are in suits; Henley's wearing a suit jacket and a skirt. Me, I'm in a collared dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, suspenders, and jeans; all black. I don't wear tuxes.

We stand on a circular stage in the center of the auditorium. Because it's circular, we all have to keep walking around it to engage the entire crowd. The audience surrounds it, applauding us, cheering us on.

Our beginning acts were nothing compared to what we have planned for the finale. For our first act, I helped Henley do a magic stunt with a sword. At first, it looked as though I had impaled her through the chest with the sword and she seemed dead for a moment, but a second later she pulled it out with a smile. Second act was a few clever card tricks from Daniel. Third act was Merritt hypnotizing a few audience members to believe they were in the Philharmonic Orchestra.

Now, we're nearing the end of the show. I'm getting used to the huge crowd and I'm starting to enjoy it. I can't stop smiling.

"Thank you," Merritt says, "Tonight we would like to try something that will, well, set us a bit apart."

Henley takes over, "For our final trick, we're going to do something never before seen on a Las Vegas stage."

"Or any stage, for that matter," I say.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Daniel says, coming to center stage. "Tonight…we are going to rob a bank." The crowd goes wild, and the noise gets deafening. "That's a lot of excitement for a crime." Henley encourages the crowd to get louder. I give Merritt a high-five. People start the slow clap.

"Now, please, please, settle down," Daniel says, waving his hands down. "Now, who here has a bank they would like us to rob?"

I laugh as half the room raises their hands.

"Oh, okay, that's a lot of people with a vendetta. So we'll choose one at random then." The crowd laughs. "My associates will make sure it's random. Right?"

The three of us take out bowls filled with numbered ping pong balls and go to different sides of the stage. I'm first; I hold my bowl down to the guy in front of me. He had the black hair, the rings, the jewels, and the shirt showing too much chest-hair.

"Elvis, help me out, bud." I mimic Elvis Presley's baritone voice and say, "Thank you very much," after he hands me a ball.

"In Jack's bowl are ping pong balls with section numbers. Jack, could you hand me a section number."

I throw the ball I was palming to the middle of the stage where it bounces once and Daniel catches it. "Thank you," He looks at it. "We are looking at Section B. Where is Section B?" Section B stands up and cheers. "Okay. There. It's going to be one of you guys, get ready."

Merritt has a girl in front of him choose a ball for the row number and tosses the ball. Daniel catches it, announcing row number five. Then Henley throws him a seat number.

"Oh, lucky number thirteen. B-5-13. Where are you? Sir, please, stand up," The spotlight turns on over to the seat and a dark-haired man in a white jacket stands up; it's Etienne Forcier. Well, I guess Merritt's hypnotism and reinforcements did the trick. He took his vacation to Las Vegas.

"There you are. Hi. Could you just confirm for me that this is, in fact, your seat? B-5-13?" Daniel holds up the balls in one hand for the camera and it's displayed on the screens.

Etienne Forcier turns around to check his seat and back. "Yes," he says.

"Okay, wonderful," Daniel chucks the balls away from him. "Now, could you please tell us your name and the name of your bank?"

"Well, my name is Etienne Forcier and my bank; it's Credit Republicain de Paris," Etienne replies, his French accent now obvious, but still understandable.

"French. Okay," Daniel replies. "Ah, we were hoping for something a little more local, a kind of mom-and-pop credit union with no security, but that's fine. A promise is a promise. Could you please come up to the stage? And we'll rob your bank."

I make my way to meet Etienne and lead him to the stage, a job for the assistant. Ugh. I'm glad that there's no flash of recognition in his face when he meets me.

"And while he does that," Daniel continues. "There is someone here tonight without whom we would just be four magicians working the circuit, trying to get… Well, actually, trying to get here. You probably know this man, if not from one of the many, many companies he puts his name on. He is our friend. He is our benefactor. Mr. Arthur Tressler." At that, Daniel gestures towards the crowd and a spotlight shines on Art, the white-haired British businessman, as he stands, accepting the applause. He waves.

"The only man here with the Queen's cell phone number," Merritt states.

I take Etienne's left arm, leading him up the steps and onto the center stage. Man, this guy is rich. Full white ensemble, completed with a fancy blue dress shirt and light brown shoes to match.

"Actually, please, stay standing, Art. I want to say that when we came to Mr. Tressler, we promised that, as a unit, we could become the biggest name in magic," Daniel says.

Henley takes over with, "So we wanted to say thank you and, by the way, Art, you notice on the sign out front, we made sure we put your name on top."

"If you turn out to be as good as you think you are, dear girl, that won't be necessary much longer," Art says with a smile and a nod before taking his seat.

I hand off Etienne to Merritt, who meets us center stage, and I run to grab a prop.

"We haven't done our closer yet. Why don't you watch it and then you can decide for yourself. Ladies and gentlemen, Arthur Tressler."

"Thank you. And, of course, once again, the Cardinal of Clairvoyance," Daniel waves his arm to center stage, where Merritt now stands with Etienne. "Merritt McKinney."

I reach the stage with the prop and bring it to the middle of the stage.

"Etienne," Merritt says. "What Jack is bringing to the stage now, is what we in the magic world call a teleportation helmet." I smirk, hold it high, and walk a circle around them, showing it off. The "teleportation helmet" is basically a bunch of metal wires and circular metal lights and buttons melded together. Whatever works, I guess. "You will need to wear this, as it will allow you to literally fold through space and time to your bank in the…"

"Eighth?" Merritt guesses. Etienne shakes his head. "Ninth arrondissement," Merritt decides. Etienne nods.

Merritt continues, "Now, once you are there, we will be able to speak with you through this helmet."

I settle the "helmet" onto Etienne's head.

"Now if…," Merritt stops as I adjust it, fixing Etienne's collar while adjusting the attached microphone. "Oh my god, that's beautiful. It has the added attraction of being very stylish. It's about time the French learned from America on that subject. Is that a beautiful piece of headgear?" I flip the lights on and step back. Masterpiece complete; I throw my arms out, gesturing toward it. Voila! (I guess I do know more French than I thought.)

The audience applauds and all Etienne can say is "Thank you… thank you…"

"Mais oui, mais oui," Merritt replies. Daniel and Henleymake their way center stage.

"Now, before you go anywhere, could you please, pick a card, any card," Daniel says, fanning out a deck. Etienne reaches out, but Daniel pulls it back.

"Not that card." Daniel smiles and holds it back out, "No, that's an old American joke. You can take that one." Etienne takes it.

"Show it to your friends in Section B there, but not to us," Daniel says. Etienne raises it up, showing it to the audience. "Okay, great. If you could just sign your name there… in English, if possible." The audience laughs as Etienne signs his name in the middle of the card and puts it in his jacket pocket.

"And now," Henley announces, "For one tiny detail." She reaches and pulls fabric out of seemingly nowhere and it swirls around the very middle of the stage and into the ceiling, revealing a mechanical contraption. The audience gets excited with cheers and hollers.

The machine isn't really anything; it's for show, like the helmet. It looks like a giant press. There's a platform for him to stand on and the other maybe seven feet up. The whole thing could easily be ten feet tall.

Merritt says, "Now, Etienne, let's step into this cockamamie contraption." He leads him onto the platform. "And I'll step off of it. Bonne chance." Daniel and I step forward and lower the translucent screen down from the top to the bottom. Merritt continues, "It's 11:50 pm here in Vegas; that's 8:50 am in Paris. You bank opens in less than ten minutes."

The machine powers up and the four of us step back.

"One," Merritt says.

"Two," I say.

"Three," Henley says, as she presses a giant button on a remote connected to the machine. The two platforms forcefully clash together loudly with Etienne inside; everyone gasps. The lights flicker off and back on.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like that, was it?" Merritt asks, looking around. "I liked that little French guy. Where'd he go?"

I look around. I know we're acting, but it still scared me.

The screens around the room light up. There's a faint static noise as the camera on the helmet gives us an image of Etienne's face. Behind him, you can see a vault door.

"Wait, there he is," Daniel sighs, pointing to the screen. The audience is relieved and applauds. "This is Daniel Atlas. Can you hear me? Etienne? Are you okay?"

"Yes," Etienne replies as the camera redirects toward the stack of Euros.

Even though we can clearly see it, Daniel asks, "What do you see in there?"

"Money," He says. "Is this real?"

Yes, it actually is. Under the stage is a vault set that looks just like the guy's bank. The entire thing is a blinding clean white and has shiny silver deposit boxes covering the walls. In the vault set, we put all of the real money we got from the armored truck. It's on a crate in the middle of the room and Etienne is staring at it in amazement. He picks up a few bills and fans them out.

"Yes. Looks like three million or so Euros' worth," Daniel answers. "Okay, now, here's what we're going to need you to do. I want you to take the card that you signed out of your pocket." He does. "And I want you to take the ticket stub from tonight's show and I want you to put it right there in the middle of the money." He drops the two pieces of paper in between the stacks.

"Now, on the side of your helmet you should feel a button. Don't press it just yet. That button activates an air duct that connects Paris to Las Vegas. Okay, good, now you can press it." Etienne does and the sound of wind starts to rise up.

"All right, now, Etienne, hold on tight. You might feel a bit of a vacuum," I say, jokingly.

The money in the vault starts to blow around and swirl towards the vent in the ceiling. Etienne chuckles as money flies past him. With each passing second, the suction gets stronger and stronger until all of it is gone.

A rumbling noise slowly gets louder in the auditorium where we are. Suddenly, the real Euros are fluttering down like leaves from the ceiling. The crowd goes nuts. I'm instantly relieved that it worked, I let out a nervous laugh I was holding in.

"Thank you, Etienne," Daniel yells to be heard over the roar of the crowd. "Thank you, everyone!"

In unison, we all say, "We are the Four Horsemen. Good night!" We all join hands and take our bows.

After the show, Merritt let Etienne out, but still let him believe it was real magic (as in hypnotism terms). We found out that our flash paper did go off in the bank in Paris from the news. It worked. Now we deal with the police.


	6. The FBI

The FBI comes when we're hanging out in our hotel room at Aria. It is so much nicer than the one in Paris. There's floor to ceiling glass windows; Daniel's looking out at the tall skyscrapers of Las Vegas. And there's actually a main room. It has a modern theme; everything is wood and stones, and some tan color. It has a bar, a huge TV, a couch, a desk with a computer, and a spiral staircase. Merritt is lying on the couch, rereading that weird book. This place is high class. It's a plus side to having Art as a benefactor.

We're leaving for New York soon, so I'm packed and my suitcase's ready. Henley is upstairs, still packing. The bags are in a pile next to the couch.

I'm lounging in a chair at a side table; it's off in the corner of the room, near the TV. I have my feet up on the table, my new iPad is resting on my lap, and I'm playing Fruit Ninja. The room is quiet except for the sound of slicing fruit.

"FBI! Hands where I can see them!" The room is suddenly filled with people in black suits with guns. We figured someone would come to arrest or question us; I mean we did openly rob a bank in front of an audience. But, man, the FBI? How cool is that? I pause the game.

Merritt raises one finger, saying, "Uno minuto," and his eyes don't even move from the page.

I slowly raise my hands above my head. Daniel turns away from the window with a confused look on his face and hesitantly raises his hands; there's a deck of cards in one hand.

"Put the book down," One of the men orders Merritt.

Merritt smiles and sighs, "Okay, you got me." He sets the book on his chest and raises his hands with peace signs.

Henley is coming down the stairs, putting on her jacket when another man yells, "Freeze! Hands in the air!" at her.

She's startled, but regains her cool. With her jacket only half on, she raises her hands and asks, "Do one of you guys mind giving us a hand with our bags?"

Unexpectedly, they don't mind. They cuff us, but they carry our bags for us. We walk in a line, cuffed like criminals, but we don't feel like ones. I have a huge grin on my face. We're applauded by other guests as we walk out through the casino on the ground floor.

We're put in separate SUVs. I'm guessing it's so we can't collaborate on a story. It doesn't matter. The ride is really boring and I almost fall asleep (in my defense, the show ended at midnight). The agent sitting next to me jabs me in the gut. I open my eyes and stare at him, trying to make him uncomfortable. It works; the agent shifts towards the window.

I ask him, "How long is this going to be?"

I receive a confused look from the agent and he answers, "Depends."

Once we get to the FBI headquarters (how cool does that sound?), the agent leads me to an interrogation room. Just two chairs, one on either side of a table, and a one way glass window.

I decide to cooperate. I let the FBI agent attach my cuffs to a bar on the table and seat me in the surprisingly comfortable chair. I'm facing the door and the window, which looks like a mirror from this side. When I slouch, kick my feet up on the table, and slip my hands out of the cuffs and into my lap, I'm able to nod off.

I wake up a minute later when the door opens with a click and I'm face-to-face with a lady in a suit, who looks strict enough to be a math teacher. I can smell wintergreen mints on her breath.

"Kid," Math Teacher asks me, sounding pissed, "Why aren't you handcuffed?"

I shrug in response and accidentally (on purpose) bump her as I go to put the cuffs back on. She coldly snatches them from me, unlocks the cuffs, and tightens them harder than before. Then she leaves. That was the easiest interrogation ever; I even got a mint out of Math Teacher's pocket when I bumped her.

How are the others doing? It occurs to me that the FBI agents might not even talk to me. Daniel is, obviously, the leader. They'll interrogate him. Danny will most likely only give them snarky comments and threats. If they talk to Henley, the agents will only receive her suave responses. Merritt will have fun with them, oh boy. Too bad they won't let me watch that.

I resume my napping position, which is slightly adjusted due to the cuffs. I rest my hands on the table and close my eyes.

I think FBI agents have something against their suspects sleeping. I've hardly dozed off again, when the door swings open wide. I open one eye slightly. Two agents debate in harsh whispers about whether or not to enter. The blond woman gestures towards me, seemingly in favor of having me questioned. The dark-haired man with a round face looks fed up and resists.

I catch the man say, "I'm tired of these idiots…don't want to talk to the assistant…the nerve to sleep in an interrogation room."

They continue for about ten seconds, in which the woman gives him a look. He sighs and walks in. But, he immediately turns back around, saying, "I'm not doing it!" and the door closes once again.

I can't sleep after that; I just stare at the wall. I don't want to be thought of as the assistant. I'll have to talk to Danny about that.

Right on cue, Henley opens the door, followed by Math Teacher with a key. She hardly takes a step when I slip out of the handcuffs.

"No need," I say, standing up. Math Teacher gets that pissed look on her face again and throws her hands up in frustration.

I join Henley and we walk out. I'm still thinking about the assistant thing.

"Henley," I ask, staring at the ground as we go, "How did you quit as an assistant?"

She starts laughing at me. Then she realizes I'm serious and drops the smile. "Sorry," Henley says darkly, "Well, you're not going to be an assistant much longer… Not that you are now."

"What?" I say, still not looking her in the eye.

Henley leans in and whispers, "Danny has some more plans to show you. We didn't tell you earlier because we didn't want you to be nervous."

"Does it have to do with the death card?"

Henley nods. We find Merritt and Danny waiting for us at the exit. Together we walk out to the cars that'll take us to the airport.

* * *

I keep quiet until we arrive back at the apartment in New York. It's been our headquarters ever since we met a year ago. Since then, the place has become cluttered with plans (models of venues, lists, maps, that sort of thing). The furniture that was stacked in the dining room got vacuumed and distributed throughout the rooms and everything has been cleaned (sort of). At least now the bathroom is useable and we brought in a TV. There's also another door near the kitchen that I didn't notice the first time.

I've set up camp in the bedroom. The room doesn't actually have a bed, just plans for the final show. No one else sleeps in the apartment but me because the others go home. I keep a sleeping bag stashed in the closet, so I can just sleep on the couch here. It's not every night, though. It's only because I forgot to pay the bills for my own apartment, so there's no electricity or water there.

The four of us are meeting in the main room, on the couches. As soon as we're all sitting, I immediately ask what's weighing on my mind. "So, Danny," I say. "How about the plan for my death?"

"Well, okay," Daniel replies, unfazed. "I mean, you did get the death card, so this shouldn't be much of a shock. However, "they" want you to fake your death and "they" gave us a plan to do that, as well. You'll die in a car accident. The car will flip multiple times and then go up in flames."

"What? How am I supposed to survive that?"

Daniel gets up and grabs a stack of paper and folders. He looks hesitant when he hands it to me, like I'll destroy his precious paper with one touch. "This is all they gave us on it," He sits back down and continues, "From what I understand, it'll be one big sleight of hand trick. They probably chose you specifically because that's what you're skilled at."

Wow, that's almost a compliment. But faking my own death? I don't understand how Danny's so calm about this. He just moves on to what happened during the interrogations and the plans for our next show in New Orleans. He doesn't even consider how this is going to ruin my life. Come to think of it, I don't really have much of a life. The few people I know will think I'm dead.

I see why they were keeping this from me until now. I expected something like this for an initiation into the Eye because they're rumored to test your blind obedience. However, I didn't expect something that I can't turn back from. This is an all or nothing thing.

When I read the plans, I realize just how complicated it is. There'll be no question that I died when it's over. It involves taking on several FBI agents, stealing a car and then driving said car, stealing a corpse from the morgue, and more than a little improvisation. Holy shit.

The more I think about who'll care when I die, the more I think of my family. My heart sinks at the thought of my parents watching the news and then seeing that I died in a fiery explosion after crashing a car. I can picture them crying; I don't want them to cry. Even though I haven't spoken to my parents in a year, I feel like I need to warn them about what'll happen. I decide to write them a letter as something they can hold on to when they see me on the news. But, I can't tell them everything.

Here's what they'll find in their mailbox:

_Mom & Dad-_

_You guys know that I want to be a famous magician. Now, I finally get the chance. You'll know what I mean when you see it; maybe you already have. All I want you to remember is: When it seems like the end for me, I need you to have faith. But, this is goodbye._

_-Jack_

I've never used the word 'faith' before, but it seemed to work here.


End file.
